
/f I o 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 

(IN FOUR ACTS) 
BY 

JOAQUIN MILLER , , 



^%H 




.N FRANCISCO 
WHITAK R & RAY-WIGGIN CO. 
1910 






'I ^HIS is a reader's edition, and the 
-* dramatic rights of the play are 
reserved. Permission to stage may be 
obtained from M.r. ^Mliller through 
his publishers. 



Copyright by C. H. ^^iller 
1910 



TRAMSFrHKEO FROM 
«AY2! I91f 



'^ THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



r 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 



SANDY. — "A king, this man Sandy; a poet, a 
painter, a mighty moralist; a man who could 
not write his own name." 

THE PARSON. — So-called because he could "out- 
swear any m^n in the Camp." 

THE JUDGE. — Chosen, because he was Ht for 
nothing else in this "Glorious climate of Cali- 
fornia." 

BILL HICKMAN.—^ Danite Chief. 

CARTER. — Companion to Hickman. 

LIMBER TIM.— Sandy's "Limber Pardner." 

WASHIE WASHIE.— "^ Helpless little Heathen." 

BILLY PIPER.— "TM^ Cussed Boy." 

THE WIDOW.— ^ Missionary to the Mines. 

CAPT. TOMMY. — A woman with a bad name but 
a good heart. 

BUNKERHILL. — Companion to Capt. Tommy. 



[2] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



ACT I. 



Scene : "The Howlin' Wilderness." Saloon. Bar. 
Water bucket on table. Mining tools, rocker, 
etc. Miners discovered lounging about. The 
Judge and Limber Tim at bar, drinking. 

Judge. Well, well, well. And so that boy, Billy 
Piper, is livin' in that old cabin up the Middle Fork 
where them three miners handed in their checks to 
the Danites? 

Limber Tim. Livin' there all alone by hisself, 
Judge ! 

Judge. Why, I wouldn't live in that 'ere cabin all 
alone by myself, Tim, for that cradle full of gold. 

Tim. It's been empty, that cabin, 'bout a year. 
Judge. 

Judge. Empty as a bran new coffin, Tim. 

Tim. And folks just about as willin' to get into it, 
as into a bran new coffin, I guess. 

Judge. Tim, me and Sandy had gone out to help 
the emigrants, where we seed that poor gal, Nancy 
Williams, killed, and we warn't here. But you 
was. Tell me how it was the Danites killed 'em 
all three in that cabin, and you fellows didn't smell a 
mouse till it was all over. {Miners gather around.) 

Tim. Well, them three miners was kind o' ex- 
clusive like, just as if they war a bit afraid of suthin'. 
They come from Hannibal, Missouri. But they was 
good miners and good neighbors, too, and was a 
makin' money like mud. 

Judge. Yes, hard workers. Struck it, too, in the 

[3] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



channel afore Sandy and me went out to meet the 
emigrants that time? 

Tim. Yes, you remember ^em, Judge. All strong, 
healthy, handsome fellows. But you see — shoo! 
Be careful, boys, when you speak of it — but they 
was of that hundred masked men that killed the 
Mormon Prophet, Joe Smith. 

Judge. And the Danites hunted 'em down, every 
one, even away out here in the heart of the Sierras. 

Tim. Yes. Three as fine, hearty fellows as ever 
you see, and a makin' money like dirt, when along 
comes a chap, gets in with 'em, and the first thing 
you know, a rope breaks in the shaft, and one of 'em 
is killed. Then the water breaks in one night, and 
one is drowned. And then the last one of the 
three is found dead at the foot of the crag yonder. 

Judge. And nobody suspectin' nothin' all this 
time? 

Tim. No. But they did, at last, and when me 
and the boys went there and found that long-haired 
stranger chap gone, and all their clothes, and all the 
gold scattered over the floor, why we knew it was 
— Shoo ! Danites ! 

Judge. Left all their clothes, and just lots of 
gold scattered all over the cabin floor! When I 
got back, and heard about the gold, I went right 
up 

Tim. But too late. Judge. The old clothes was 
there, but the gold — well, that had evaporated. 

Judge. Yes, you had been there, Tim. I don't 
want any more old clothes, and come to think, I 
don't want any gold that comes to a fellow's hand 
like that. Why, boys, that little old cabin is haunted, 
and that boy a livin' in it. 

Tim. And all alone, boys. 

[4] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Judge. Well, if that boy don't see ghosts in that 
cabin, livin' all alone by hisself like that — there ain't 
any, that's all. How long's he been there, Tim ? 

Tim. I don't know. Month or two, maybe. You 
see after the men was all dead, and that stranger 
chap skipped out, nobody hked to go near the cabin ; 
kinder 'fraid of the Danites. (Enter Bill Hickman 
and Carter L. C.) 

Judge. Shoo Tim! See! {Miners fall hack 
down L.) 

Hickman. {Making sign to Barkeeper.) Dan 
shall be a serpent by the way, an adder in the path, 
that biteth the horse's heels so that his rider shall 
fall backwards. {They grasp hands, drink and exit 
L. C.) 

Tim. Them's Danites. 

Judge. {Grasping pickhandle.) Well, as Judge 
of this ar camp, I'd just like to purify this glorious 
climate of California with 

Tim. Judge! Judge! The Bar keep too? a 
Danite ; didn't you see the grip he gave ? You don't 
know who is and who ain't. Now just you remem- 
ber them three poor fellows up the Canyon and keep 
still: Hello! My Pard. {Enter Sandy and the 
Parson L. C. and cross to Bar.) 

Sandy. Come boys. {All make rush to Bar.) 
Well, you are all alive here I see. 

Parson. None of these 'uns dead Sandy, eh? 
{All laugh.) But poor Dolores. Just been a help- 
in' Capt. Tommy and Bunkerhill put her in the 
coffin. 

Sandy. Was starved to death. Yes she was 
boys, and right here. Yes, and Tim, when you went 
to get a subscription for the Dutchman that broke 
his leg 

[5] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Tim. Why she sot up in bed and took off a ring, 
and 

Sandy. Took off a ring — her marriage ring — 
the last one she had, and you didn't have sense 
enough to see it. Oh, I don't blame you Tim, that 
was her way, you know. She was starvin' then. 
But boys look here; the Parson he wrote "Small 
Pox," on that butcher's door, that refused her meat, 
and now — well, he'll go into bankruptcy. 

All. Good! Good! Served him right! 

Judge. But, I say, Sandy, did you see them 
strangers ? 

Sandy. The tall, religious sort of chaps? 

Judge. Talkin' about Dan bein' a serpent in the 
path. 

Sandy. Yes. Seed 'em lookin' at the dead body 
of Dolores, down there. What of it? You seem 
skeered. 

Judge. Danites ! 

Tim. Danites in the Sierras 1 

Sandy. What ! 

Judge. Yes, Danites. And the very fellows, too, 
I think, that you and me run across when we went 
out to meet the emigrants, after we found this 'ere 
minin' camp. 

^ Sandy. That shot — that hunted down the last of 
the Williams and shot, shot her — that pretty, that 
sweetly pretty girl that, that we found. Judge, and 
tried to save and bring back to camp to the boys ? j^^ 

Judge. The same hungry, Bible-howlin' varmifs, 
I do believe. 

Sandy. Judge, I'll be revenged for that poor 
girl's death if it takes me ten years. Why, there she 
came to us just at the gray of dawn, just as we seed 
the gold of the mornin' star croppin' out of the 

[6] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



heavens; came to us, weary, torn, half-dead with 
hunger and fright, flyin' into camp Hke a wounded 
dove, there on the bank of the deep, foamin' Truckee 
river. "Why, poor Httle bird," I said, and I put 
my arms about her and took her up when she fell 
at our feet, boys, and laid her away to rest under the 
tree, by the bank. Judge, you know, and watched 
over her, we two did, Judge, as if she'd been our 
own kid. And then. Judge, when she waked up, 
you remember, and we fed her, and she talked and 
told us all. And how we promised and swore to 
save her. Judge. And then, just as we got all 
packed up and ready to come back, the Danites came 
burstin' in upon us, leadin' the Ingins, and all of 
'em a shootin' at that poor, helpless baby, that never 
did anybody any harm. 

Judge. (Crying and imping eyes.) That alkali 
dust out there hurts my eyes yet. (Rushes to bar 
and drinks,) That strengthens the eyes. 

Sandy. And then, boys, after the battle was 
over and I turned to look for her — Gone! Gone! 
Only the deep, dark river rollin' between its willow 
walls. Gone ! Gone ! Only the dark and ugly 
river gurglin', sweepin' and rollin' by, and the wil- 
lows leanin' over it and drippin' and drippin' and 
bendin' to the ugly waters. Leanin' and weepin' 
as if in tears for her. Only the dark river rollin' 
there under the bendin' willows and — and — and my 
heart as cold and empty as a dead man's hand. 

Tim. Why, Sandy, my poor old pard, we'll all 
stand by you and help you git even on 'em. 

Parson. Stand by you agin the Danites, Sandy, 
till the cows come home ; and thar's my hand. 

Sandy. (Wiping his eyes and going.) If them's 
them, Judge, I'll find 'em and raise 'em out of their 

[7] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



boots. No, you needn't come, boys. If I can find 
'em, that's all I ask. Let me have 'em all to my- 
self, boys. (Exit, L. C. ) 

Judge. Poor Sand. He loved her, boys. And 
she was pretty. So sweetly pretty. And to go and 
get shot and drowned like that, when we was fightin' 
for her. 

Tim. Why he talks about her yet in his sleep, 
Parson. But he wouldn't know her if he seed her. 

Judge. Only seed her by the camp-fire, boys. 
But he hain't been the same man since. 

Parson. Always was a little soft here. (Taps 
heart.) But he's good, Tim. I ain't sayin' nothin' 
agin' your pard. Only he's tender hearted. (Enter 
Washee Washee, L. C.) 

Washee Washee. (Down stage.) I say, Plos- 
son, plack tlain comee. 

Judge. (Aside.) The pack train ! Then there 
will be some news. And maybe some strangers; 
and maybe some business. Must brush up a bit. 

Washee. Yes, plack tlain comee down way 
uppee mountain, an' a somebodee alle samee a 
Captin' Tommy; Blunkel hillee. 

Tim. All the same Capt. Tommy? 

Parson. All the same Bunkerhill? Now you 
git out of here. You've been lyin' enough. Git, 
I tell you. (Kicks at him and Washee exits, L. C.) 
Lie! Why, that Chinaman can lie the bark off a 
tree. (All laugh.) 

Judge. Guess he can steal some, too. Parson. 

Parson. Steal? He even steals from himself, 
just to keep his hand in. (Enter Sandy, L. C.) 

Sandy. Couldn't find 'em. And that's what 
makes me think it imis Danites. Judge, they come 

[8] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



and go as if they came up out of, or sink into the 
ground, like that. 

Tim. Maybe they're gone up to the haunted 
cabin to see Billy Piper? 

Judge. Oh, do you know, Parson, Stubbs here, 
says he's a wearin'^ of them dead men's old clothes ? 

Parson. Hold on, I've got an idea! That boy 
Billy Piper's a Danite! 

Sandy. Now look here. Parson, you don't like 
that boy, I know. 

Parson. No. I don't like nobody that lives all 
alone by hisself and in a place like that. Why, the 
blood ain't hardly dry yet, where them three men 
died, and he a livin' there. 

Sandy. Well, now, maybe he ain't got no other 
place to stay. And he ain't strong, you know. 
Why, the first time I ever seed him, I met him in 
the trail, and he got out of it as I come by, and held 
down his head, all for the world like a timid bit of 
a girl. Judge. And when I said, "boy, what's your 
name?" he stammered, and as if he wanted to get 
away, Judge, and at last, with his head still held 
down, he told me his name — Billy Piper — then 
smiled so sadly, like her, Judge, and went on. 

Judge. Well, Sandy, ain't nothin' wonderful 
'bout it, is there ? 

Sandy. No, Judge, not that. It's only Billy 
Piper, that's all. That's his name, boys. And don't 
you go for to nick-name him. But, Judge, that 
smile was like her — like her smile, he'/s. 

Tim. Oh, now, Sandy, don't; that's a good fel- 
low. Forget all about that. 

Judge. Yes. Talk about — 'bout suthin' new, 
talk about the weather — ^this glorious climate of 
California, and — and — and — take a drink? 

[9] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Sandy. Why, of course, boys. That's all right. 
But you. Parson, don't be too hard on little Billy 
Piper. I know it does make one feel kind o' skeery 
to think where he lives, and how he lives. But he's 
squar', squar', Parson. 

Tim. And a poet. Yes. Says pretty things as 
he stands lookin' up at the moon, a wheelin' through 
the pine tops ; prettier things than you can find in a 
book. 

Sandy. And says things as sets you a thinkin', 
too. Why, he says to hisself today, kind o' quiet 
like, when some of the boys was tauntin' Bunker 
about the hump on her back, says he, takin' Bunker- 
hill's hand, says he, "God has made some women a 
little bit plain, in order that He might have some 
women that is perfectly good." 

Tim. Just Hke a book, ain't it? 

Judge. A little shaky here. {Taps head.) May- 
be he's had trouble. 

Sandy. Jest so, Judge, jest so. O, but I say, 
boys. Forgot to tell you. Seed Soapy Dan the 
stoorkeeper just now, when I went out to look for 
them fellows and what do you think? Why his 
pack train is comin' in, and a missionary is a comin' 
in on it, too. 

All. a Missionary ! 

Parson. A — a — now look here? Not a mis- 
sionary? Of all things under the heavens, or on 
the earth, what use have we for a missionary here? 

All. No use, no use at all. 

Judge. No ! We're too good now. 

Parson. A derned sight too good! 

Judge. Why it's insinervatious, that's what it is. 

Tim. Better send him to the Cannibal Islands, 
eh, Parson? 

[10] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Parson. Do they take us for Cannibals out here, 
in this 'ere camp? 

Judge. He'll want to be Judge and everything 
else. 

Parson. It is an insult. A roarin', howlin' in- 
sult, for that 'ere storekeeper to let 'em come in here 
on his mules. And if he sets foot in here, boys, and 
he will set foot in here, he'll come in here to take up 
a collection right off — O yes, I know 'em. I seed 
'em in Missouri and on the Mississippi, and seed 'em 
when I went down the river and took ship. Oh I 
know the white choker gentry. They will have the 
best in the land and pay nothing. They never miss 
a meal and never pay a cent. A Boston missionary, 
bah! 

Judge. (Shakes pickhandle.) Well, then, gentle- 
men, it's my official opinion, as judge of this 'ere 
camp, that we'd best find him guilty on the spot, and 
execute him when he arrives. 

Parson. Tried, and found guilty. 

All. Yes ; let's all go for him. 

Tim. O, but he won't come in here. 

Parson. Won't he, though? This is the sittin' 
room of the hotel. He'll come to the hotel to get 
his fodder, won't he ? O they always have the best 
in the land, the broad-brimmed, long-legged, lean, 
lantern- jawed, hymn-howlin', white chokered sons 
of guns. I'm down on 'em, I am. 

Sandy. Well, guess we'd better all go for him, 
eh, boys? 

Parson. O, no. Don't let's go for him. Let's 
pass around the hat for brother Tompkinsonsonson ; 
let's take up a collection; do suthin' religious. 

Tim. (Taking drink from bucket.) Let's all be 
baptized. (All laugh.) 

[II] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Parson. Bully for Tim ! Let's baptize the mis- 
sionary ! 

Sandy. That's the idea, boys. Say, boys. Look 
here. When he comes in at that door 

Parson. Baptize him, then and thar. Yes ! Let's 
baptize him and give him his new name, like all the 
rest of us. 

Sandy. (All sitting; pans; water.) We'll do it, 
and I'll be chief mourner. 

Tim. Wonder if he's a sprinkler or a dipper? 

Sandy. Well, we'll make him think he's a dipper. 

Parson. Won't he look funny though, with his 
broad-brimmed Quaker hat all wilted down like a 
cabbage leaf? 

Tim. An' his long-tailed coat all a streamin'. 

Sandy. And his umbrella won't do him no good, 
for the water will rain from below. (All roar. 
Enter Washee Washee.) 

Washee. Missonalie — longee cloatee — comee. 

Parson. He's a comin' right in. Told you so, 
boys. Washee, take that, and give him one for his 
mother. (Hands water.) Comin' in. Told you so. 

Sandy. There, boys ! Pullin' at the latch-string. 
Give it to him. (Enter Widow, hag in Itand, scar 
on cheek. Miners fall hack.) 

All. Calico ! 

Widow. I am the missionary. 

Parson. The missionary! 

Sandy. (To miners; down water.) Yes, and the 
very kind of missionary the camp wanted. 

Widow. (Aside.) Why, they all had gold-pans 
in their hands. How industrious these honest 
miners are. 

Parson. Say, Sandy, let's send to the Board of 
Missions for a thousand missionaries. 

[12] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Widow. I sent word by the storekeeper that I was 
coming. I hope you were ready to receive the mis- 
sionary ? 

Judge. Hem ! We — we was ready to receive the 
missionary, mum, but — ^but not that kind of a mis- 
sionary, mum. 

Sandy. But we're glad, we're glad it is this 
kind of one, all the same. 

Parson. {Brushing up and coming close to the 

widow.) Yes we are, mum, by the {hand over 

mouth,) 

Sandy. The biggest strike. Judge, since we 
found the Forks. Now go in. Make a speech. 
Speak for me. Don't let the parson have it all 
to say. 

Judge. This glorious climate, California, mum. 
Mum, mum, welcome. Welcome, mum, to the — the 
— ^the — to — Married, mum? {Widow shakes head. 
Miners wild with delight.) California widow, per- 
haps? {She modestly turns away.) A widder, 
boys. A real, squar', modest mite of a widder. 

Parson. Yes, she's a widder. And pretty. God 
bless the pretty widder. 

Sandy. A widder! A California widder? 

Judge. Yes, yes, Sandy. That's all right. You 
see the other kind never gets this far. They seem 
to spile first. 

Parson. Have suthin' to drink, widder? 

Widow. O no, thank you. But if you could 
show me a room 

Parson. The best room in the Forks is yourn 
till you can get a cabin of your own. This way. 
{Shozuing her ofF,R.) 

Sandy. Yes ; but we all must be allowed to pay 
for it together. Parson. 

[13] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Widow. Parson ? 

Sandy. This is the Parson, mum. 

Widow. O, I'm so glad. I shall have you preach 
at every service. (Exit, R.) 

All. Have you preach? (All laugh.) 

Parson. Have me preach? 

Sandy. Why, she don't know we call you the 
Parson because you can out cuss any man in the 
camp. Come! My treat! (All rush to bar.) 

Judge. Who's goin' to be baptized now, Parson ? 

Parson. I am. Yes, I am, boys. I'm con- 
verted ; and I'm willin' to be baptized. 

Sandy. Leastwise, we don't baptize the widder, 
no way. (Sadly.) But what strange wind or 
storm blew her away in here among the crags and 
pines, boys? And so pretty, too; pretty as poor 
little Nancy Williams. And the scar? But pshaw, 
no. This cannot be her. 

Parson. Pretty, pretty, and good as gold. But 
she's had trouble, old pard. That's been a bullet 
made that scar. 

Sandy. That's just what set me to thinkin' just 
now. And I want to look at her pretty face agin, 
boys. For you see them Danites came just as she 
came. Now we couldn't find the body of Nancy 
Williams, Judge, you know, and with that scar and 
them Danites, I tell you this might be Nancy 
Williams, and if 

Judge. Sandy! Sandy! You That's not 

possible. You're always thinkin' of poor Nancy 
Williams. Why that river rolls over her, Sandy. 
Forget her, do. Now, here's this 'ar widder • 

Tim. O that pretty widder. (Straightening up 
collar.) I'm goin' to fix myself up. 

[14] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Parson. And me, too. (Miners repeat this and 
all exit J leaving Sandy.) 

Widow. (Entering.) All alone? And so 
thougtful and still. 

Sandy. (Starts.) Why I — I was a thinkin' a 
bit, widder. I — the boys have gone to fix up, I 
guess. You see you're the first woman in the Forks, 
mum. 

Widow. And are there no ladies here then? 

Sandy. Ladies? No, no ladies, mum. No 
children. No young folks at all. Only one. Billy 
Piper. A pale-faced, lonesome little fellow that 
lives all alone by hisself. 

Widow. Why, how sad for him. I shall seek 
him out and console him. 

Sandy. You mind me, mum, of a face that I 
saw once in the dusk and in trouble; a sweet, sad 
face, that vanished away like a dear, tender dream. 
But no, no, you are taller than she. 

Widow. Why, how strange. I must have you 
tell me all about it. But here are your friends. 
(Miners entering dressed loudly, drink, and edge 
up to widow.) 

Parson. Now Sandy's had her five minutes all 
by hisself. She's talked to him five whole minutes. 
I'd a been converted and baptized by this time. 
(Enter Billy Piper; pick and pan.) 

Sandy. This is the boy Billy Piper, mum, that 
lives all alone by hisself. 

Widow. I'm very glad to know you. We shall 
be the best of friends. 

Billy. O, I thank you so much. (Aside.) A 
woman. And a kind, true woman, too. Life will 
not be so hard now. No, not so utterly desolate. 

[15] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



But Sandy ! How he looks at her. Looks at her 
tenderly as he once looked at me. 

Widow. And you are a little miner. I should 
so like to dig the pure gold from the earth, too. 

Billy. Then come, and I will show you how it 
is done. (Exit.) 

Parson. Curse that Danite boy! His smooth 
tongue and face will win that widder's heart in five 
minutes. Well, if she don't baptize him, I will, 
and in deeper water than he thinks. (Goes to door. 
Shouts outside.) Hello! Boys after that China- 
man again ! 

Washer. Blandee ! Blandee ! Me likee blandee. 
(Drinks again.) Blandee makee Chinaman feel 
allee same likee flighten clock. (Going to door.) 
Melican man no comee. No catchee Chinaman. 
(Drinks.) Melican man he no comee. Chinaman 
he no go. (Shouts outside. Enter miners, ex- 
cited.) 

Parson. There he is, boys. (Rush at Washee.) 

Tim. Well, he's got 'em. You bet he has. Let's 
search him. 

Judge. Yes, search him. And if you find he's 
got anything, why I'll find him guilty. 

Parson. Yes, and if you find him guilty, Judge, 
he's got to swing. 

Judge. Got anything more, Washee? If you got 
anything the law will make you give it up. You 
can't go on breakin' the seventh commandment like 
that, in this glorious climate of California, I can 
tell you. No, not while I'm Judge, you can't. Got 
anything about you? (Seizes queue, and pulls 
about.) Got anything about you, I say? 

Washee. Yesee. My gotee that! (Draws 
pistol, Judge hacks.) 

[i6] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Parson. He's drawed a pistol! A Chinaman 
dares to draw a pistol ! Has it come to this in 
California ? A Chinaman draws a pistol on a white 
man in California! Bring that rope. (Miners hand 
rope.) 

Judge. (Hiding behind Sandy.) Hang him! 
Hang him ! And I'll pronounce sentence of death 
on him afterwards. 

Sandy. (Takes pistol.) Hand in your checks, 
Washee, Washee. 

Parson. Here boys ! Out to the nearest tree. 
(Throzvs noose over Washee' s head; other end to 
miners. Dragging to door. Shouting wildly: ''Hang 
him!" Enter widow, C, with Billy. She lifts hand; 
all let go. Washee at her feet. She throws off rope. 
Miners down stage in shame.) 

Curtain. 



[17] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



ACT II. 



Scene: Moonlight on the Sierras. Rocky Run 
crossing the stage; ledge overhanging ; set 
cabin, practical door, foot of run, background 
of distant snow-capped peaks. 
{Enter Hickman and Carter from R. i. E.) 

Hickman. That's her cabin. The missionary. 
Humph ! As if we could not find her out, though 
she professed herself a saint. Her time has come. 

Carter. Yes. But it seems to me, after she has 
escaped the bullet and the flood, and hid away here, 
toiling too as she does, it is hard to kill her. May- 
be the Lord has willed to spare her. 

Hick. {Close and solemn.) And Dan shall be 
a serpent in the path, that biteth the horse's heel till 
his rider falleth backward. Is she not sentenced to 
death? Do we not hold our commission for her 
execution ? 

Carter. But I — I'm tired of this hunting down 
helpless women. As long as it was men I did my 
part, but now — well she had no hand in the Proph- 
et's death. 

Hick. But her father had. And are you to sit 
in judgment now on this? You are not the judge. 
You are only the executioner. No! She and all 
her kindred shall perish from the earth. For I will 
be revenged, saith the Lord, unto the third and 
fourth generation. 

Carter. And I am to kill her ? Enter that cabin 
like a thief and kill her with this knife? This hand ? 
I will not! I 

Hick. And be an apostate? And die by this 
knife? And this hand? 

[i8] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Carter. I will defend myself. 

Hick. Fool! Defend yourself against the de- 
stroying angels ? Whistle against the winds of the 
Sierras, but defy not the Danites of the Church. 
Hush! (Exit, R. i. E. Enter Widow and Billy 
from cabin, L.) 
\V^ Billy. How beautiful! The whole moon's heart 
fs. poured out into the mighty Sierras. O, what a 
miracle; the moon and golden stars; and all the 
majesty and mystery of this calm, still world to love. 
O, life is not so hard now. 

Widow. And you love the world, with all your 
sad, hard life ? 

Billy. And why not? Is it less beautiful be- 
cause / have had troubles? My sweet friend, it 
seems to me the highest, the holiest religion that we 
can have, is to love this world, and the beauty, the 
mystery, the majesty that environs us. 

Widow. How strange all this from one so young. 
I came here, a missionary, to teach; I am being 
taught. But stay awhile yet. You see by the moon- 
light on the mountain, it is not so late as you 
thought. We may still read another chapter of 
your little Testament. 

Billy. No, I must go now. Besides, I know 
Sandy is coming this evening. Oh, I know you ex- 
pect him. And he, he would not like to see me 
here. 

Widow. And why not ? His is a high, loyal 
nature, above the petty quarrels and jealousies of 
the camp. Come, come in and wait till he calls. 
Then you see you will not leave me alone. 

Billy. Alone? And do you fear to be alone? 
Oh ! do you, too, shudder and start at strange sounds 
and signs as I do? Last night, up yonder on the 

[19] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



banks of the stream, in my cabin in the thick woods, 
as I lay there I heard footsteps about my cabin. I 
heard the chapparal and manzanita crackle, as if 
monsters prowled about ; wild beasts, waiting to de- 
vour me. 

Widow. Then come in. You shall not go till 
you are at least in better heart. (Info cabin. Enter 
Parson up canyon at back, breathless, pick on 
shoulder.) 

Parson. Well! That is a climb for you. If 
I'd lost my footin' comin' up that precipice, good-bye 
Parson. But it was a mile around by the trail, and 
I wanted to get to the widder's cabin afore Sandy. 
She's in thar'. Lord love her ! The sweetest thing 
in these 'ere Sierras. These 'ere Sierras ? . The 
sweetest and the prettiest in this universal world. 
Yes, and the boys all know it. They all knowed it 
when she came. But when she took this 'ere cabin, 
and took in that cussed, thievin' little heathen, kind 
o' absorbed him like, and set up to washin' the boys' 
clothes; workin' like the rest of us — when I see'd 
that 'ere little widder a bendin' over a wash-tub, 
earnin' her bread by the sweat of her brow ; wearin' 
a diadem of diamonds on her forehead; well, I 
thought of my mother and my sister, an' it made me 
better — better — and I loved her so, I loved her so. 
(Has been coming down Run; is at door. Stops and 
listens. ) The widder readin' ? And — and to him — 
that boy Piper. That brat that's either Danite, Devil 
or imp? I'll — I'll strangle him. I'll take him by 
the throat and choke the life out of him with these 
two hands and chuckle with delight while doin' it. 
He's comin' out. I'll wait till I catch him alone and 
then I'll throttle him. (Exit, L. Enter Billy and 
widow.) 

[20] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Billy. O, yes. I am quite strong now. It was 
only a passing shadow ; as the clouds will sometimes 
shut out the light of the sun or the beauty of yon 
moon. I suppose such moments come to us all. 
Good-night. My cabin is not far. 

Widow. And if anything happens, or you feel 
at all sad or lonely, come back, and Sandy, if he 
comes, I am sure will be glad to take you to his 
own cabin and cheer you up. 

Billy. Sandy! You know not what you say. 
But no. It is I rather, that know not what / say. 
Good-night. 

Widow. Good-night. And come again soon to 
read the other chapters. 

Billy. I will come. Good-night. (Widow 
closes door. Billy looks off.) How full of rest and 
peace the whole world seems. But I ? I am as the 
dove that was sent forth from out the Ark and found 
not where to set its foot. The olive branch? It 
is not for me. (Enter Judge and Tim, L.) 

Tim. Yes, Judge, my pard's cut the sand clean 
from under the Parson's feet, I guess. He's goin' 
to pop to-night, he tells me, if he can only pump 
up the spunk to do it. (Takes bottle from boot 
leg; they drink; he returns it.) 

Judge. Goin' to get married? Well Tim, in 
this glorious climate of California, I tell you one 
feels like — like — well, as if he must do suthin', Tim. 

Tim. If there was only more women, Judge. 

Judge. That's it Tim. I tell you, it makes me 
feel sort of, of warlike to think about what Sandy's 
goin' to do. I tell you, in this glorious climate of 

of California (Billy down stage and they 

meet.) 

Tim. Billy Piper at the widder's agin? Judge, 

[21] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



you're the Judge of this 'ere camp. Set him up. 

Judge. Billy, as Judge of this 'ere camp I must 
say that you ain't doin' the squar'. The boys talk 
powerful rough about you and her. You're a cry in' 
shame to the — the — ^the — ^this glorious climate of 
California. And Billy for the reputation of this 
'ere camp I think I'll punch your head. (About to 
strike. Enter Capt. Tommy and Bunkerhill, L.) 

Capt. Tommy. (Fist in Judge s face.) Touch 
that boy and I'll knock the corn juice out of you. 
Yes I will, and you too. Light out, Billy. (Exit 
Billy, R. 3 E.) You bald-headed, gum-suckin' old 
idiot. 

Bunkerhill. Tackle a boy, eh ? 'Bout the only 
thing in the camp you could lick anyhow; both of 
you. 

Judge. Well, Capt. Tommy, I'm magistrate and 
must not fight. But Tim — speak to her, Tim. 

Tim. Yes, he's a magistrate; and you've got to 
keep the peace too, or he'll 

Capt. Tommy. Well, do you want to take it up? 
You long-legged, jackass rabbit you. Come on, both 
of you. I'm your match. 

Bunkerhill. Takes both of 'em to make one 
man. (Enter Widow from cabin.) 

Judge. Ahem ! The widder ! Good evenin', 
marm. I'll put 'em under arrest for bein' drunk 
and disorderly, if they disturb you, marm. 

Capt. Tommy. Widder, sorry to disturb you. 
Bunker and me is allers in trouble. Allers, allers. 
And not allers for faults of our own, mum; it's the 
bad name, mum. 

Bunkerhill. It's the bad name, mum. And 
we must bear it. Good-night, widder, good-night. 
(Going.) 

[22] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Capt. Tommy. Don't think too hard of us. We 
hain't had no bringin' up, Hke better women has. 
But we won't never make no rows anymore, mum, 
if you'll forgive us. 

Widow. Forgive you? You have done me no 
harm, and if you have trouble, young ladies, remem- 
ber it is yourselves you harm. You do yourselves 
harm, young ladies. 

Capt. Tommy. {To Bunker.) Young ladies! 
She called us young ladies. 

BuNKERHiLL. Shc's a good 'un, Tommy. A 
good, squar' woman. {Both returning.) 

Capt. Tommy. {Weeping.) Widder, between us 
rolls a wide river that has borne Bunker and me 
from the high, sunny shore where you stand to the 
dark, muddy t'other side ; and I'll not try to cross it, 
widder. But God bless you for callin' us young 
ladies. We was good once, and we had mothers 
once. Yes, we had, mothers, and fathers, and little 
baby brothers and sisters, and — {Tim affected. 
Judge takes out handkerchief.) 

BuNKERHiLL. Yes, fathers and mothers and 
little brothers and sisters that loved us, before we 
fell into the dark river that bore us far from the 
high, white shore where you stand, widder. 

Widow. {Offering hands.) The river is not so 
wide that my hands will not reach across it. If 
my feet are on the solid bank, take my hand, hold 
strong and come up and stand by my side. {They 
hesitate, grasp her hands and kiss them.) 

Judge. Tim, I feel as if I'd been to meetin' in 
Missouri and, and, got religion. 

Tim. You old fool, you're a cryin'; Capt. Tom- 
my, she's a cryin'; and Bunker — she's a — {Breaks 
down.) 

[23] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Judge. Capt. Tommy, I'm an old, busted, bald- 
headed old — well, I guess I am an old fool. But 
you've made me better. And if you'll take me for 
better or for worse 

Tim. And me, too, Bunker. I'm hot lead in a 
bullet ladle. All melted up. Take me? (Both 
greatly amazed. Confer aside, then frankly for- 
ward.) 

Bunker. Well, if you'll be good to Billy, and to 
everybody. 

Tim. Good to Billy? You will make us good to 
all. Good ! But come. Now let us go tell Sandy. 
{Both embrace; ladies take arms and going.) 

Judge. O, this glorious climate of California! 

Widow. You will all come to see me ? 

Judge. We will come. Good-night. {Exit, R. 
3 £; Widow looking after. Enter Sandy, L. i E.) 

Sandy. Why, widder, you — you out here ? You 
— you waitin' here for me, widder? Say yes, 
widder. Say you were waitin' for me, and it will be 
as if the sun, and the moon, and the stars all 
together shone out over the Sierras, and made this 
another Eden, with its one sweet woman in the 
center of God's own garden of fruits and flowers, 
and — and 

Widow. Why, Sandy! You used to sit for 
hours in my cabin and not say one word, and now, 
you talk like a running brook. 

Sandy. No, no, widder. I can't talk. I never 
could. I never can, widder. But widder, it's not 
them that can talk that feel. You hear the waters 
thunderin' down that ar' canyon over thar' ? They 
are shallow and foamy, and wild. But where they 
meet the river away down below, they are calm 
and still. But, they are deep and strong, and clear. 

[24] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



So widder, it seems to me with the hearts of men 
and women. And widder, when I stood thinkin' of 
you, to-day 

Widow. You thought of me to-day ? 

Sandy. To-day? Yesterday! To-morrow! For- 
ever! O, widder, as I bent to my work in the 
runnin' water, the white clouds far up above me 
tangled in the high, dark tops of the pines, the gold 
shinin' there in the dark loam and muck, as the pure 
waters poured over it; the gold as pure and true, 
and as beautiful as your noble life, my lady, I 
thought of you, how that you was like that gold in 
the loam and in the muck, among us all. And — 
and 

Widow. Us all? (Aside.) Why can't he speak 
up for himself, now that he has learned to speak? 
(Aloud.) And you think I have done good here 
— for us all ? 

Sandy. Good! You have been the seasons of 
the year. The spring and summer, and the fruit 
and flower of the year, to every one of us. Why, 
we'd a hung that cussed Chinaman. We would. 
Yes, and never a thought about it after he was 
buried. And, why we hain't hardly had a funeral 
since you came, and we used to have 'em every Sun- 
day, when only Bunker and Capt. Tommy and poor 
dead Dolores was here. O, yes, you've helped us, 
widder. 

Widow. Helped us. Has the little missionary 
done you no good, Sandy ? 

Sandy. O, yes, you — yes, you — you — you — 
washed my shirt. 

Widow. Oh Sandy! 

Sandy. Yes, that was good in you, widder. But 
you see that's considerable trouble to a feller too, as 

[25] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



well as help. For when a feller has to send his pard 
with his shirt and go to bed till it gets back 

Widow. Why Sandy, haven't you but one shirt? 

Sandy. But one shirt? Do you think a man 
wants a thousand shirts in the Sierras ? 

Widow. O Sandy, you do need a missionary, in- 
deed you do, Sandy. You want a missionary badly. 
(Sandy starts, and for the -first time seems to under- 
stand.) 

Sandy. I — I — yes, widder, I do want a mission- 
ary; I need a missionary. / — / — the great, rough 
heathen of this 'ere camp. Never did a cannibal 
hunger for a missionary as my heart hungers for — 

for Widder, will you — can you — can you — 

will you be my missionary? — my wife? 

Widow. Sandy, here is my hand; my heart you 
ought to have known has long been yours. (Offer- 
ing hand.) 

Sandy. You — you — you don't mean it ? Is it me 
that's to have you? Rough, bluff, bearded old 
Sandy. Not the Parson ; not slim Limber Tim, not 
that gentle, sweet boy, Billy Piper, but Sandy? 
Sandy, strong as a pine in Winter, and rough as the 
bark of a tree. And this — ^this soft, lily-like hand 
to be laid in his ! O, widder, you don't mean to give 
me this dear, tremblin' little hand, do you ? Soft 
and white, and flutterin' like a dove that has just 
been caught. Is this little hand to be mine for 
storms or sunny weather, widder? 

Widow. Yes, Sandy. 

Sandy. (Taking her in his arms.) Jerusalem! 
Mine! Mine! My wife! Mine, to work for, to 
plan for, to love and to live for! Mine! Mine! 
Mine ! My beauty ! Mine ! Mine, at last ! (Re- 

[26] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Hecting.) But, widder, my cabin is a rough place. 
Only a little log hut. 

Widow. Sandy, great love is content to live in 
a very small house. 

Sandy. True, widder, true. Love, real un- 
selfish love, it seems to me, could be content under 
the trees ; in the boughs of the trees, like the birds ; 
in the mountains; everywhere that love — ^that love 
— finds love — to — love, love. 

Widow. Yes, Sandy. Anywhere that love finds 
love. 

Sandy. Yes, yes. You see I know about what it 
is' I want to say, but I can't say it as well as you can. 

Widow. Nonsense, Sandy. But the moon is low, 
and 

Sandy. And I must go. Well, you're right 
But before I go, widder, if you love me — {Embraces 
and kisses her.) Moses in the bulrushes! The 
world is a bigger world now. I seem to stand on 
the summit of the Sierras, six feet two inches taller 
than the tallest mountain top. Oh, widder, this is 
Paradise with its one little woman, and now you're 
goin' to drive me out of it. 

Widow. Yes, you must go now. You see we 
are here in the open trail, and the miners on the 
night-watch, passing to and from their tunnels, will 
think it strange on seeing us together so late.' 

Sandy. Right, widder. It's a man's place to 
brighten a woman's name, not to soil it. Good-night. 

Widow. To-morrow, Sandy. Good-night. (Exits 
into cabin.) 

Sandy. To-morrow ! O, moon, go down ! And 
sun rise up and set, for I can never wait. To-mor- 
row ! And I kissed her ! And her soul overflowed 
and filled mine full as a river flooding its willow 

[27] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



banks. I must tell Tim, and Tim will tell the Judge,, 
and the Judge will tell the boys, and the boys will 
bust. For it's too much happiness for one little camp 
to hold. To-morrow! Mine! My wife! (Starting 

to go.) And I kissed her, and kissed her, and 

(Turns to go up stage, and meets Parson face to 
face. ) 

Parson. Talkin' in your sleep, Sandy ? 'Pears to 
me you're actin' mighty queer, eh? Been seein' the 
widder agin' ? Mustn't get excited where woman is 
concerned. Sort of like buck ager. Miss your 
game, sure, if you get excited, Sandy. 

Sandy. O, yes, I know all about that, you know. 
Oh, I'm not — not afraid of a little woman like that. 

Parson. Well, say, old pard, Sandy, you — you 
didn't really have a serious talk with her? Squar', 
now, Sandy. Squar' as a coffin lid, Sandy. We 
were old pards once, you and me, Sandy. We 
don't want to send each other up on the hill thar, 
Sandy. So you'll be squar' with me, an' I'll be 
squar' with you. I love that 'ere woman thar, 
and 

Sandy. Well — well. The fact is. Parson — you 
can't help it, I guess. Now, I'll tell you. That 'ere 
little woman, she's — come and take a drink. 

Parson. No, thank you, Sandy. Got to set my 
night-watch in the tunnel, and change my drifters. 
But it's to be a squar' fight, Sandy, and there's my 
hand. And if you git her, Sandy — git her squar' ! 

Sandy. Squar', Parson. Squar' ! (Exit L,iE.) 

Parson. Good-night. Got him out of the way, 
and I'll see her right off, and tell her — tell her Hke 
a man I love her. (About to enter cabin. Limber 
Tim and Billy enter i?. 3 £.) Pshaw ! Here comes 
Tim and that cussed boy. (Exit L, behind cabin.) 

[28] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Billy. There is somebody prowling about my 
cabin, Tim. I can't; I won't stay there to-night. 

Tim. Well, you do look skeered. (Aside.) 
Ghosts, I'll bet a gold mine ! (Aloud.) Three men, 
wasn't there ? Your face is white as snow, Billy. 

Billy. And my hair will be as white. O, Tim, 
I tell you there are two men, and 

Tim. Three! (Aside.) There was three of 'em 
killed, and they've come back. (To Billy.) Pull up, 
Billy. I'll tell my pard, Sandy. But you see his mind 
is awful full now. O, he's got a powerful mind. But 
it takes it all, and more too, to tend to her. (Point- 
ing to cabin.) 

^BiLLY.—And he really loves, and will marry her? 

Tim. That's the little game, he's tryin' to play, 
Billy. Guess he's got the keerds to do it too. I tell 
you the moon shines mighty bright for my pard to- 
night, Billy. Oh, he's a happy man I can tell you. 

Billy. Tim, tell me this. Why is it that the 
graveyards are always on a hill ? Is it because it is 
a little nearer heaven? 

Tim. (Turning away.) Well, I — I — well Billy, 
I don't take to graveyards and sich like. May be 
it's a prettier view up thar'. But then they can't see, 
with their eyes full of dust. 

Billy. No. Nor feel, nor understand, nor suf- 
fer. Love and be unloved, know and be unknown 
through all the weary years of this weary, loveless 
life. Oh, Tim, Tim ! ( Tim knocks at door. Enter 
Widow.) 

Tim. Widder ! Billy's took sick. Poetry ; pretty ; 
stars; grave yards and sich. Mustard plaster, 
phvsic and peppermint tea. Take care of him, wid- 
der, till I tell Sandy. (Exit L. i E.) 

Widow. What is the matter, Billy? 

[29] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Billy. Sandy. Has he been here, as you ex- 
pected, and told you all? 

Widow. All, all. And I am so happy. 

Billy. And / am so miserable. 

Widow. O, Billy, why is this? Why are you 
so miserable when your friends are to be so happy? 
Can you not tell me? Can you not trust me? And 
can you not trust Sandy, too? 

Billy. No, no, no. Down to the door of the 
tomb, even over the dark river, alone I must bear 
my secret, my sufferings and my cross. O, you can- 
not guess. You will never know the dark and 
dreadful truth, the mystery, the awful crimes 

Widow. Crimes ! Crimes ! Then you are — you 
are a Danite? 

Billy. I, a Danite? I? 

Widow. Yes, I see it all now. Men have been 
seen prowling about your cabin at night. They 
have been seen to enter it in your absence. 

Billy. Merciful heavens, what do you say ? Then 
I am doomed. Oh, if it would come. If it would 
come now ! Now ! Sudden, and swift, and certain. 
Now 1 Oh, this suspense is more than death. This 
waiting day and night, night and day, for the execu- 
tioner to strike. Come ! Come ! O, I cannot bear 
this any longer. Come, death! Father in heaven 
take — take me ! Pity and take me now. Oh ! Oh ! 
This is death! (Falls.) 

Widow. What terrible thing is this? Will no 
one come ? He is dying, and no one to help. Dying, 
choking to death. (Opens collar.) A woman! 

Billy. Hush. A whisper would be my death 
warrant. (Danites appear on cliff watching.) You 
hold the secret of my life. You hold my life itself. 

Widow. You are 

[30] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Billy. Nancy Williams. (Danites disappear.) 
But you will keep my secret? 

Widow. As these Sierras keep the secrets of 
their Creator. 

Billy. Thank you ! thank you ! My sister, my 
friend. And when all is over; when dying from 
this constant strain and terror; when dead in my 
cabin yonder; then bring him, with some wild 
flowers, and once let him, whom you so love, stoop 
and kiss the cold, cold face of her who loved him, 
oh, so tenderly. 

Widow./ ^And you love him as he loved you? 

Billy. As you love him, and as I shall love him 
while life lasts, my sister and my friend. But from 
him, even until death, this secret is sacred as the 
secrets of the grave. 

Widow. As you will ; sacred as the grave. 

Billy. And now good-night. Tim will be back 
soon. No, I dare not enter your cabin now. Let 
them still believe me of the Danites. I hear foot- 
steps, go! Good night. (Exit widow into cabin. 
Enter Danites, R.) 

Billy. (L.) The Danites! (Exits R, S- E.) 

Hickman. Keep watch down the trail. Men 
will be passing soon to and from the tunnels on the 
night-watch. We must not be seen. Look sharp. 
This is the woman. I heard the boy call her name 
— Nancy Williams — as I leaned from the cliff there. 
The work must be done, and done now. (Tests 
knife, and cautiously opens door.) 

Carter. Shoo ! Some one is coming down the 
trail. Out! Back! (Enter widow.) 

Widow. Some one opening my door. Well, 
what is it you want, sir? 

Hick. You. Your time has come. (Throws 

[31] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



light of lantern in her face, and grasping knife. 
Enter Parson, L.) 

Parson. Hello! Hello! Now what are you 
doin' around the widder's cabin, eh? 'Pears to me 
everybody in camp, night and day's a hoverin' round 
this 'ere cabin of yourn, widder. Who are they? 
Say, who are you fellows anyhow? {Hick, and Car- 
ter retreat R. Parsons following them, seizes Hick., 
holds him, and looks long and hard in his face.) 

Hick. Well, friend, you'll know me when you 
see me again, won't you ? 

Parson. Yes, I will. Yes, I will know you, and 
know you in a way that you will remember, if ever 
I see you hangin' 'round this little woman's cabin 
agin'.. Know you when I see you? Now, you just 
set a peg thar, and remember that the longest day 
you live I'll know you, you bet. 

Hick. Be patient, my friend, I meant no offense. 

Parson. Didn't you, though? Well, I'll remem- 
ber you, and know you all the same when I see you. 
Who are you fellows, anyhow? 

Hick. Only Prospectors. Good night, Sir. 
{Exit both R.) 

Parson. Prospectors, eh? Well prospectors 
don't prospect at midnight. They're ground-sluice 
robbers, I'll bet. You look out for them fellers, 
widder, they're on the steal. {Aside R.) All by 
herself ; and Sandy sound asleep. Bet I'll never get 
another such a chance. {To widow.) Pretty late 
ain't it widder? Pretty fine night, but pretty late. 

Widow. Yes ! late. But it seems to me nights 
like this were not made for sleep. 

Parson. {Aside.) Not made for sleep; but 
made for love. O, what a hint. That's what she 
means. Oh, was there ever anything so smart as a 

[32] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



smart woman in such things? (Aloud.) Ahem! 
No, not made for sleep. You're right there, widder. 
(Aside.) Ain't she pretty and smart? Ain't she 
smart? I'll just press her here on that point. 
(Aloud.) No, these moonlight nights were not 

made for sleep, but for — for Now what were 

these moonlight nights in the Sierras made for, 
widder ? 

Widow. For meditation and prayer. 

Parson. (Aside.) Won't somebody please set 
down on my head. This is the end of the Parson. 
(To widow.) Why, widder, you — you — I under- 
stand now. And it's Billy — but to have you love a 
thing like Billy, widder, that there's been so much 
talk and secrets about. I tell you to beware of Billy. 
Beware of Billy. He's a sneak ; a sneak. A Danite ! 
And I'll throttle him yet. Yes, he is a Danite ; and 
I will kill him. 

Widow. Parson, for shame! You asked me 
if you could do me a favor just now ; you can. 

Parson. Name it ! And if it's to throw him over 
that cliff, I'll do it. I'll do it. 

Widow. No. You will befriend and defend 
poor little Billy Piper. Do it with your life! 

Parson. Oh, widder, anything but that. Why 
he's a snake. A snake in the grass. He has put you 
to shame before all the camp. All the camp is 
talkin' about his sneakin' in and out of your cabin, 

day and night, and 

Oi Widow. You insult me! (Going.) And now 
bEow me that you are the man Sandy is, by befriend- 
ing that boy, or never speak to me again. (Exit 
into cabin.) 

Parson. By defending that boy ! That boy who 
seeks to ruin her! And to have her slam the door 

[33] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



in my face. O, I could twist his neck as if it were 
a wisp of straw. Slam your door in my face like 
that? I'll be revenged on you and on him if ever 

I (Enter Billy R. 3. E. running and looking 

back.) 

Billy. By my cabin ! I dare not go home ! 

Parson. (Suddenly confronts, Billy C.) So 
youngster! (Seising him.) Come here! (Pulls 
him down C.) Come here with me! Now, look 
here! What have you been doin' at the widder's? 
Do you hear? Answer! Say — I'll just pitch you 
over them rocks there, and break your infernal slim 
neck — (Pulls him up, run.) Come here! Now 
you tell me the truth! What a' you been doin' at 
the widder's? Say! (Shakes him.) Don't you 
know that if you go on in this way, you will fall over 
this bluff some night, and break your infernal little 
neck? Don't you know that? Speak! you boy — 
you brat. (Shaking him.) Well, I'll save you the 
trouble of slippin' off of here; yes, the boys will 
like it. They'll all say, they knew you'd break your 
neck some night. Now look here, sir ! You've got 
just one minute to live; to say what you want to 
say, quick. When that flyin' cloud covers that 'ere 
star yonder, you die, and may Gold help you — and 
me. Speak now ! Come ! come ! speak but once be- 
fore I — murder you. 

Billy. (Falling on knees, hands clasped.) Please, 
Parson, may I pray? (Parson lets go; staggers 
back; Widow appears at door of cabin with can- 
dle, shading eyes.) 

Curtain. 

1 34 ] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



ACT III. 



Scene: Sandy's cabin — Flowers on table, curtains 
on walls and at window, R. C; practical door, 
L. C; fire; gun; door, R. H.; cradle; widow 
discovered rocking cradle; Capt. Tommy and 
Bunkerhill sewing; both greatly improved. 

BuNKERHiLL. Well, if I was Billy, I'd take the 
hint, I would, and leave camp. He won't fight ; he 
can't work. He's got no spirit for nothin'. 

Capt. Tommy. Guess we'd better 'ave let Lim- 
ber and Judge shake him out of his boots, that night, 
eh ? He's no good, I guess, eh ? 

Bunkerhill. Yes, but it ain't in me, and it 
ain't in you. Tommy, for to see two on one. The 
bottom dog in the fight, that captures me. But 
guess Limber and Judge were right wherl they 
wanted him to git. 

Capt. Tommy. Well, what is he anyhow? Dan- 
ite or devil? 

Bunkerhill. Can't say, Capt. Tommy. Mrs. 
Judge. Beg pardon, Mrs. Judge. 

Capt. T. All right, Mrs. Tim, 'pology is accepted. 

Bunkerhill. Well, as I was sayin', I don't 
know whether he's Danite or devil. But I do know 
he's no man. (Widow starts.) Why, yes, widder. 
And the sooner you know it the better. Why, don't 
the whole camp hate and despise him? You're the 
only friend he's got. You and Sandy. And you're 
the very ones he hurts the most. 
I Capt. T. Why he's just a ruinin' of your charac- 
^"it^ in this 'ere camp, widder. Society must be 
respected. 

[35] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



BuNKERHiLL. Yes, widdcr ; we ladies can't 
afford to fly into the face of society. 

Capt. T. Yes, widder ; only last night, the Judge 
he says to me, he says, says he, "now that I'm a 
family man," says he, "I must have respect for 
society." 

BuNKERHiLL. O, I tell you, I wouldn't fly into 
the face of society for nothin' in this world. (To 
Capt. T.) It would be the saddest day of my life 
when I'd have to cut the widder for the sake of 
society, but she must be keerful. 

Widow. And why should all men hate poor little 
Billy Piper so? 

BuNKERHiLL. {To Capt. T .) Shall I tell her, 
Tommy ? 

Capt. T. Yes, tell her. Hit's for her own good. 

BUNKERHILL. Well then, they hates him so be- 
cause you loves him so. 

Widow. Love him? Well, yes, I do, and pity 
him from the bottom of my heart. Oh, if we but 
had money, gold, plenty of gold, Sandy and me, we 
would leave here. We would go away silently and 
secretly some night, to another land, and take him 
away out of it all. Yes, I do love him. 

Capt. T. {To Bunker.) Well, that just fetches 
me. What will society say to that ? 

BUNKERHILL. The butcher's wife will cut her. 

Capt. T. The baker's wife turned all streaked 
and striped last night as she told me about Billy 
comin' here so much. I never ! 

BuNKERHiLL. Well, / ucvcr. 

Capt. T. Why, the new Parson's wife won't 
even look this way. 

BuNKERHiLL. Hcxccpt whcn she goes out to 

[36] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



take up a collection. Capt. Tommy, Mrs. Judge; 
beggin' pardon, Mrs. Judge. 

Capt. T. Well, if she'd a married the old Parson, 
I tell you, ther'd been no hangin' round of Billy 
Piper at the parsonage. Why, he'd a kicked him 
out, and respected society, he would. 

BuNKERHiLL. Poor Parsou. Wish he had a got 
her. Why, he's all broke up. He's a perfect walkin' 
corpse. Asks always 'bout the widder when I meets 
him on the trail ; tender like ; so tender like, Capt. 
Tommy, with his eyes all wet, and a lookin' to the 
ground. 

Capt. T. Well, now, the old Parson's not a 
corpse, I guess. Look here, I seed him at the store, 
a fixin' of his irons ; heelin' himself like a fightin' 
cock. Yes, he did look powerful pale. But the 
Judge says to me, last night, says he, "Mrs. Judge, 
I hearn the Parson's bull pup bark" ; that's his pis- 
tol, you know, Bunker. And the Judge, he says to 
me, says he, "there's goin' to be a row." And the 
Judge, he says to me, says he, "I know there's 
goin' to be a row, because, as I came home, I heard 
the Dutch undertaker hammerin' away like mad." 
And the Judge, he says to me, says he, "Mrs. 
Judge, that undertaker is a good business man, and 
a very obligin' man; he allers looks ahead, and 
when he's sure there's goin' to be a row at the 
Forks, he takes the size of his man and makes his 
coffin in adwance." (Enter Judge and Tim; 
dressed; polite.) 

Judge. Good mornin', madam ; Mrs. Sandy ; good 
mornin'. A very infusin' sermon last Sunday, Mrs. 
Sandy. Sorry you was not out. Musn't neglect the 
church, Mrs. Sandy. Splendid sermon 'bout — 'bout 
And splendid collection. Took up a damned 

[37] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Splendid collection. Got my handkerchief hemmed, 
Capt. Tommy? (Glasses; to table, takes up baby 
garment; Capt. T. hides face.) You don't mean 

to say that — that — that God bless you, Tommy, 

God bless you. Oh, this glorious climate of Cali- 
fornia. Tim, let's take our wives home and go on 
a tear. (Arms to ladies.) Good-bye, widder. 

Capt. T. Good-bye, widder. And, say, widder, 
we love you, but be careful about Billy Piper, won't 
you? 

BuNKERHiLL. Widder, that's so; we loves you. 
You made suthin' of us, and we'll try to don't forgit 
it. But there's trouble comin', widder. Cut Billy, 
and tell Sandy to look out for the Parson. 

Judge. Come, my family. Oh, this glorious cli- 
mate of California. (Exit Judge, Tim, Capt. T, and 
Bunker, L. C.) 

Widow. They are so happy. And the great bald- 
headed boy, the Judge, is the happiest of all. O, 
they have so improved the poor girls. 'Tis love that 
makes the world go round, my baby. And you, my 
little pet, smiling there, I wonder what these Sierras 
hold in their hearts for you? And I wonder, as I 
look in your rosebud face, what manner of men and 
women will grow here in this strong, strange land, 
so new from the Creator's hand? Shall there be 
born under the burning sun of the Sierras a race of 
poets? Of good and eloquent men? Or men, 
mighty for ill? These are your mother's thoughts, 
my darling, as she tries to fill her little place in life 
and do her duty to her baby and to her husband. 
(Enter Sandy; gold pan, pick, shovel; pan on 
table; pick and shovel by door.) Oh, Sandy, I was 
just thinking of you, just saying, my husband. 

Sandy. My wife ! And the baby is well ? 

[38] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Widow. Smiling, Sandy. 

Sandy. So it is; smilin' like a new Spring 
mornin', when the sun leaps up a laughin' from its 
bed. Now this is happiness. This 'ere is the edge of 
God-land, my pretty. I think if I should go on and 
on a thousand years, a hundred thousand miles, my 
darlin', I wouldn't get nearer to the Garden of Eden, 
that the preacher tells about, than I am now. 

Widow. And this little home is Paradise to you, 
as it is to me, Sandy? 

Sandy. Paradise ! It is the best part of Para- 
dise. It is the warm south side of Paradise, my 
darlin'. But there, I must put up the gold in the 
bag, and put it under the hearthstone for baby. 
(Cleaning gold.) 

Widow. If we only had plenty of it, Sandy. 

Sandy. My pretty, is there anything you want? 

Widow. No, Sandy. Not that I really want. 

Sandy. But what is it, my pretty? Now, come, 
there's a cloud over your face. Don't my darlin', 
don't. This is Paradise ; and the new preacher tells 
us that never a cloud or a rude wind crossed the 
Garden of Eden. Yonder are our walls ; the white 
watch towers of the Sierras, keeping eternal guard 
over our Garden of Eden here in the heart of the 
Sierras. Now, what is it? 

Widow. Why nothing at all, Sandy. Only I 
was thinking this morning that if we had plenty 
of gold, a great, great plenty Sandy; so that you 
had so much, you might never have to work so hard 
anymore, that, — ^that 

Sandy. Well my pretty? O, I see. You would 
give it to my old pard, the Parson. That's right; 
that's good. He's goin' away and will need it. I'll 
make him take this 

[391 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



-^ 



.Widow. No, no, Sandy. He is not going. He 
is mad, desperate ; and will do you harm if you go 
near him. Do not speak to him. Do not go near 
him. 

Sandy. Well I won't then, if he's mad with me, 
my pretty. No sir'ee. And I'll buckle on a bull- 
dog, too. {Buckles on and tapping pistol.) Bark 
at him, boy. Bark at him. Bite him if he bothers 
us. But I say, what is this you want with gold? 
Take all there is. Take it, my pretty, and do as 
you please with it. Is it Washee Washee that wants 
to bring out some more of his seventy cousins ? Or 
is it the old man that got washed through the 
ground sluice ? No ; I won't ask you ; take it. For 
what do I want with it but to please you? What 
good is all the gold in the Sierras if you are not 
satisfied and happy ? Say, my beauty, do you know 
I said to myself to-day, says I : * * * The heart 
of woman is like the heart of our Sierras; some find 
gold there and some do not; much depends on the 
prospector. 

Widow. Now that's so, Sandy ; but take it back 
Sandy; you have worked too hard for this, for me 
to give it away to poor little — (Shouts, widow to 
window, R. C.) Why, what can that be, Sandy? 

Sandy. Is it the Parson, my pretty? 

Widow. Why no, it's Billy Piper ! And the boys 
howling and running after him ! Oh Sandy ! (En- 
ter Billy, breathless.) 

Billy. (Behind Sandy; enter mob) Sandy! 
Sandy ! They have run me out of my cabin. They 
threaten to kill me. 

Sandy. Run him out of his cabin? 

Tim. Yes, and we'll hang him to the nearest tree ! 

Sandy. Now hold up, Tim ! And tell me what's 

[40] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



he done ? And what all you men are runnin' after a 
boy like that for? 

All. Bah ! 

Judge. A boy like that ! And you a family man ? 

Tim. Them Danites was seen a sneakin' about 
his cabin only ten minutes ago. And that's why I 
say run him out. 

Judge. Yes, I say git. 

All. Yes, run him out ! 

Capt. T. Too many on one, Bunker. I'm goin' 
in for the bottom dog, and society can just go to the 
devil. {Throws off bonnet and rolls up sleeves.) 

Judge. Now, my Capt. Tommy, just think what 
society 

Capt. T. Shut up! You bald-headed old jack- 
ass! I'm just goin' in on this fight, bet your life. 

BuNKERHiLL. Ycs ; we're all gettin' too dern'd 
respectable, anyhow. (Throws hat.) 

Widow. Sandy, Sandy, stand by Billy. 

All. He's a Danite ! 

Sandy. Stand back! I don't care what he is, 
or what he has done. He has come to me for pro- 
tection. Why, if the meanest Digger Injin runs to 
another Injin for protection, won't he protect him? 
Well, now, this boy is as safe here as if he were 
my own kid. 

Billy. O thank you, Sandy! Thank you with 
all my poor broken heart. But it won't be for long 
Sandy. It won't be for long, and then you shall 
know all. She will tell you all. (Exit L. C.) 

Sandy. She! She will tell me all? Why this 
mystery ? Why this 

Widow. Sandy, what do you mean? Can you 
not trust your wife? 

[41] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Sandy. I can trust you. I do and I mill to the 
end of my life and of yours. 

Judge. That's right. Family man myself ; trust 
your wife. Now you see, Sandy, the boys been 
askin' me to make a sort of explanation of this 'ere 
intrudin' into your house like this 'ere. You see, 
Sandy, we was makin' up a purse for — for your 
family. And as the boys had never seed a baby, 
and — and as I — as we wanted to see how they look, 
we had concluded to call en massy. But just as we 
was a comin' dovv^n the trail we seed two Danites 
skulkin' about Billy Piper's cabin. And on the 
spur the boys went for him. But we brought the 
purse all the same, and here it is (Purse to Tim.) 

Tim. As the pardner of — of my pardner, I — I 
have been appointed a committee of this 'ere delega- 
tion to deliver this 'ere dust and make the speech 
for the occasion. Widder (Breaks down.) 

Judge. (Pushing himself forward.) Widder in 

— in this — glorious climate of California 

(Breaks down.) 

Tim. Widder, this 'ere bag of gold what you 
now behold; this purse of pure bright gold, dug 
from out the — ^the Sierras. This purse of gold 
widder, is — is — is — yourn. 

Widow. Mine, mine? All mine to do what I 
will with it? 

Tim. Yourn, widder, all yourn. Yourn to git 
up and git, out of this hole in the ground, to go 
back to the States and live like a Christian, as you 
are, and git away from all that's bad here in this 
hole in the ground, like a wild beast in a carawan. 

All. Bully for Tim ! 

Judge. And now let the boys see your family, 
Sandy. 

[42] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Sandy. Here, Washee Washee, give it to Mrs. 
Sandy and set up the bottles for the boys. ( Washee, 
who has been feeding baby by fire, with bottle and 
spoon, gives baby bottles, etc. Widow sits, C.) 

All. Oh! Oh! what is that? The Httle cuss! 

Tim. Little thing to make sich a big row, eh, 
Sandy ? 

Washee. He Judgee babee, baldee headee. He 
no Sandee. 

Tim. You speak to the boys, Judge; that effort 
of mine exhausted me. {Judge, attitude for speech; 
to table, drinks, and again striking attitude; drinks 
again. ) 

Judge. Gentlemen of — of the committee ! Fellow 
citizens, this, what you now behold is — is — (stops 
and widow whispers in ear.) This which you now 
behold before you is — is an — an infant. The first 
white born baby citizen ever born in these Sierras. 
The first, but not the — the — (Capt. T. stops him.) 
Feller citizens, this little infant sleeping here in it's 
mother's arms, with the mighty snow-peaks of the 
Sierras about us ; this innocent little sleepin' infant, 
which has been born to us here gentlemen, shows 
us that — well, in fact shows us — shows us what can 
be done in this glorious climate of California. (All 
shout and Me past, and look at baby.) 

Tim. (Going.) Well come boys, I've got a 
family myself and must be lookin' after mine. 
(Exit L. C. Re-enter.) Sandy! Sandy! Heel 
yourself! The Parson! The Parson with his bull 
pups — shootin' irons. 

Widow. Oh, Sandy! Sandy! 

Sandy. (Hand on pistol.) Stand back, boys, 
and let him come. Quiet, quiet, my girl. (Parson 
enters hand behind; down, and walks quickly 

[43] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



toward Sandy; Sandy raises pistol; Parson, after 
emotion.) 

Parson. I've been a waitin' to see you, Sandy, 
a waitin' a long time. 

Sandy. Stop ! 

Parson. Sandy I'm goin' away from here. I 
can't stand it any longer. Your cabin here will be 
too small now, so I want you to promise me to take 
care of the parsonage till I come back. 

Sandy. The parsonage? 

Parson. Yes, that's what the boys call my cabin. 
The parsonage. You'll move in there, at once. It's 
full of good things for winter. You'll take my 
cabin, and all that's there in it, I say you'll take it at 
once. Promise me that. (Handing key.) There's 
the key. Now say you will. 

Sandy. Yes, I will. 

Parson. It was your luck, Sandy, to git her. 
Good-bye, old pard. Widder — I — what! You 
shake hands with me, the poor, old, played out Par- 
son, after I broke my word with you! Widder! 
God bless you ! Yes, yes ! God bless you both ! 
(Exit.) 

Sandy. Poor, honest old Parson. Thare's many 
a worse man than he in mighty high places, boys. 

Tim. (At door looking up.) Yes, Sandy, and he 
is climbing for a high place now. 

Sandy. What! Gone already! And it's dark 
and snowin'. 

Tim. Started up the steep mountain right here. 
A climbin' and climbin' right straight up the moun- 
tain ; as if he was a climbin' for the mornin' star. 

Sandy. And may he reach it, and find rest at 
last, Tim. 

All. And find rest at last. 

[44] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Tim. But Sandy, you must move into the Parson- 
age. Yes, you must. You see, you promised it. And 
then it takes a pretty big cabin to hold a pretty small 
baby. (All laugh and gather around table and 
drink.) 

Judge. Well, one more boys, to — ^to 

Tim. To it. But come, boys, it's gettin' dark. 
(All drink and exit C.) 

Widow. My baby! What a name, Sandy. It! 

Sandy. Poor, poor old Parson. It's a hard 
world on some of us, widder. 

Widow. It is hard on some, those who cannot 
work and are all the time persecuted and misunder- 
stood. Now Sandy, dear, do you know who I am 
going to give that gold to which the miners gave me 
just now? Come, guess. Can't you guess, Sandy, 
dear? 

Sandy. Why, no, widder. I can't guess. To 
who? 

Widow. Why to Billy Piper. 

Sandy. (Starting.) To Billy Piper! No. no, 
not to him. You know not what you say. You 
know not what you ask of me to bear. You know 
not what you are asking me to bear, my wife. That 
boy? Why now that he is once out of my cabin I 
will kill him as I would a rattlesnake wherever I 
can find him. (Enter Tim, running amd breathless, 
L. C.) 

Tim. Sandy! Sandy! The Danites! Your gun 
Sandy! The two Danites have just left Billy 
Piper's cabin, their dark lanterns in their hands and 
are coming this way through the Chapparal. Quick 
your gun ! Billy's in with them. 

Sandy. (Reaching gun.) Billy Piper in with 
them ! Danite or devil, this shall be the end of him. 

[45] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Widow. Sandy, you will not, you shall not harm 
him. You shall not leave this cabin till you prom- 
ise you will not harm him. See, Sandy, see, on my 
knees I beg of you. Never before on my knees to 
aught but my maker Sandy, yet you see me here 
now on my knees to you. 

Sandy. You take from me my life and my honor. 

Widow. Sandy, Sandy ! Do not be so blind. It 
is to save your soul. 

Sandy. What ! 

Widow. It is to save your soul from the stain of 
innocent blood. Will you not believe her whom you 
promised to trust to the end of your life, and of 
hers? 

Sandy. Yes, yes ! I can and I do trust you. I 
will not harm him. 

Widow. O brave, generous Sandy. But I ask 
more still. Promise me that you will protect him. 
Yes, protect him as you would protect me with this 
strong right arm, Sandy. 

Sandy. Why, widder, I 

Widow. O Sandy, promise me, promise me. I 
feel that something dark and dreadful is about to 
happen. I see him lying dead in his innocent blood 
with no one to pity, to pray for, or to understand. 
Oh promise me Sandy, that whatever happens, you 
will be his friend and defender to the end. 

Sandy. I promise. 

Widow. Swear it. 

Sandy. I swear it. (Exit with Tim.) 

Widow. The Danites here, and on his track! 
Oh this is too dreadful to believe. {Noises, L.) 
What is that? It may be poor Billy now trying to 
find his way to my door, in the dark and cold. I 
will go find him, help him, save him. {Snatches 

[46] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Up candle.) Lie still my baby. {Ex. L. hastily. 
Enter Billy, C, cold and snow.) 

Billy. It is a fit night for the bloody deeds of 
the Danites. But I must not stay here. Where can 
she be ! I must see her, and then fly, fly, fly ! {Sees 
cradle.) Oh she's not far off. {Kneels by cradle. 
Enter widow. Very dark stage.) 

Widow. Why how dark it has grown! The 
wind has blown out my candle too. I left some 
matches here somewhere. {Feels about, comes to 
cradle and finds Billy.) Billy! You here! But 
Sandy must not see you here now. Quick! hide 
here; I hear some one. {Hides Billy behind cur- 
tain, and down stage. Door opens softly. Danites 
enter and come stealthily down stage.) 

Hickman. I saw her enter at that door, not a 
minute since. She m^ust be here. {Sees widow.) 
Ah, there! {Hickman conceals lantern; advances 
on widow from behind with knife and strikes her; 
then child. Widow screams and dies as crowd 
rushes in. Danites exit unseen, L. H. Sandy and 
Capt. Tommy bend over widow.) 

Capt. Tommy. She is dead! Murdered in cold 
blood! 

Sandy. Dead ! My wife dead ! Oh, has the sun 
gone down forever? Dead? Dead? 

Tim. Yes! {Pointing to Billy.) And there is 
her murderer. 

Judge. Hang him to the cabin loft. 

All. Hang him ! Hang him ! Hang him ! 

Sandy. No, you shall not hang him. {Springs 
between as they attempt to seise Billy.) I promised 
that poor, poor, dead woman there to defend this 
boy, and I'll do it, or die right here. 

Curtain. 

[47] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



ACT IV. 



Scene — Old mining camp. Moss-grown cabin R. 
Set tree L. Sunrise on the Sierras. Lapse of 
three years. Enter Limber Tim, L., with 
Judge, older and better dressed. 

Tim. Warn't down to the saloon last night and 
don't know the news, eh? 

Judge. No, no. Since I've come to be a family- 
man, I'm sort of exclusive; got to set an example 
for my family. But what's this news? 

Tim. The Parson's back. 

Judge. What! Him that loved the widder so? 
No! Impossible! Why he went away North to 
Frazer River; got smashed up in a mine there I 
hear; washed through a flume and his limbs all 
broke up till he had as many joints as a sea crab. 
O, no, he can't never get back here. 

Tim. But he is back. And the sorriest wreck, 
too, that ever you seed, I reckon. Ought to have 
seed him and Sandy meet. Cried like babies, both 
on 'em. Come back here to be buried up on the 
hill there, he says. 

Judge. Well, well, well ! The Parson wasn't 
bad, Tim; he was about the best of the old boys 
of forty-nine, 'ceptin always Sandy. And Sandy, 
after the murder of the widder and his kid — well 
he's all broke up body and mind. Spec' he's 
'bout as near gone up the flume as the Parson 
is. But I must get round and see how Billy Piper 
is this mornin'. The school master, what's boardin' 
'round, came home by his cabin here, and didn't see 
him at all last night; but Tim, he seed a black cat 
a sittin' in the door a washin' of its face. It's a bad 

[48] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



sign when you see a black, Capt. Tommy, my wife, 
Missus Judge, says. Guess that boy's pretty sick. 
(Going.) 

Tim. (Aside.) That boy. Tears to me that 
varmint won't never grow to be a man. And he 
twists his wife and my wife right around his cussed 
little fingers, and makes 'em look after him. Well, 
Judge can look after him, cussed if I will. (To 
Judge. ) O, I say, Judge ; there was two others 
came to camp last night, too. 

Judge. Two others? Who? 

Tim. Don't know 'zactly. Quartz speculators, 
they say: Mormon elders, I say. 

Judge. Mormon elders ! Bet a dog skin they're 
Danites. But so long; must look after Billy and 
get back to my family. (Going L. 3 E., meets 
Hickman and Carter disguised. They shake hands 
and converse up stage.) 

Tim. (Solus.) Hello! Here's them Quartz 
speculators now, and Judge shakin' hands and jist 
a talkin'. 'Spec he's tryin to impress them with 
the glorious climate of California. Guess I'll go 
back down to the "howlin' wilderness." Judge will 
be powerful dry time he gets there, if he keeps on 
talkin' like that. (Exit L. 1.) 

Hickman. (Coming down stage.) And so you 
are a family man and your wife was one of the first 
families of the Sierras? 

Judge. Family man; yes, sir; and my wife is 
one of the very first families. The very first. That 
is, she and Mrs. Limber Tim. Mr. Limber Tim's 
member of the Legislature now, wife, family name 
Bunkerhill, of the Bunkerhills of Boston. Yes, my 
wife and his wife, too, trace family clean back to 

[49] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Boston, sir. Yes, proud to say I'm a family man, 
sir. 

Hickman, But this widow the miners spoke of 
as one of the first settlers ? She who came as a sort 
of missionary. She here yet? 

Judge. Dead. Buried up yonder, sir, with her 
baby. First baby born in the Sierras, sir. 

Hick. Dead, eh? Fever? Natural death, or 
accident ? 

Judge. No, sir ! Neither natural death nor acci- 
dent. No, sir! But murder! Why, that was the 
pitifullest thing; and it was the meanest murder 
that ever happened, I reckon. The boys at first 
thought it might be Sandy ; for he was mad because 
of Billy Piper, that night. And then the boys 
thought it might be Billy, because; — well, because 
they didn't like him, never did, and never will, I 
guess. But when they came to examine Sandy, 
there was no blood on the knife he had in his belt. 
And, as to Billy, well, he had no knife at all. 

Carter. Why, we heard about this last night. 

Judge. Dare say ; dare say ; may be the miners 
talked about it last night. They don't forget it. 
You bet. 

Carter. Mother and child found murdered? 

Hick. And no trace of the murderers was ever 
found ? 

Judge. None. It's the queerest case that ever 
was, I reckon. For whatever beast or devil could 
murder a little baby like that, asleep and helpless? 
Why ! Well sir, since I've come to be a family man, 
sir — if I should ever find a man that murdered a 
baby — sir — as judge of this 'ere camp, I'd hang 
him first and try him afterwards. 

[so] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Hick. Yes, yes. That's all right. But this boy 
Billy; he here still? 

Judge. There's his cabin. Same old cabin been 
in for years; the same one the Danites killed three 
fellers in. Pretty sick, too, I guess. Wife told me 
to drop in, see how he is. You'll excuse me. Must 
go in and see the boy and get back to my family. 
(Exit into cabin.) 

Hick. (To Carter.) That boy is Nancy 
Williams ! 

Carter. Well, and if it is, she's dying, they say. 
Can't you wait till nature does the work for you ? 

Hick. Though that boy should, by nature, die 
to-morrow, our duty is to slay to-day. 

Carter. You seem to thirst for blood. A wife 
and babe dead at our hands will cry for revenge yet. 
Make no more mistakes like that. If this should not 
be she 

Hick. It is she ! There shall be no second mis- 
take. Look here. (Takes out small Testament.) 
Yesterday, I saw this boy's face, as he sat reading 
up yonder, by his mine; our eyes met as I stood 
over him. His lips trembled with fear, and his eyes 
fell. He remembered the time, on the Plains, years 
ago, when we were commissioned to slay the last of 
the Williams'. I say that boy is the last of the 
family. I know it. 

Carter. Then, I say, you must do the murder 
yourself, if it is to be done on such slender evidence 
as your word. 

Hick. It is not to be done on slender evidence. 
Look here! Frightened, he let this fall and slunk 
away. 

Carter. A little, old Testament. Well ? 

[51] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Hick. The boy was reading this as I appeared 
and spoke to him. 

Carter. Well, he might read something worse 
than a Testament. 

Hick. But, look here! On the fly leaf. Read 
this dim and faded dedication. "To Nancy Wil- 
liams, FROM HER AFFECTIONATE MOTHER, NaNCY 

Williams, Carthage, Missouri, 1850. 

Carter. Too true ! Too true ! He must die. 
But not here. Give him a chance to fly. It is not 
as safe as it was when we were here before. The 
Vigilantes ! 

Hick. Ha ! ha ! I have thought of all that. The 
Vigilantes shall be for us. They will be made to 
accuse him of the widow's death. Did the Judge 
not say he is suspected? 

Carter. Yes, yes. Let them then accuse and 
hang him. But see, the door opens. He is coming 
from the cabin. 

Hick. I'll back till that man is gone, and you 
go stir up the Vigilantes. Tell them he murdered 
the widow and her child. I'll console him with this. 
(Lifts Testament. Exit Carter, L. Enter Billy 
from cabin, R, supported by Judge, who seats him 
by the door. Hick, up stage, behind tree, L.) 

Judge. Now don't break up here, just as the 
birds begin to sing and the leaves come out. I'll 
send my family 'round to cheer you. 

Billy. You are so kind. Do send her ; and the 
children, too. And please won't you let them stay? 
Let them stay all day. Yes, and all night. O, all 
the time, always. 

Judge. Why now, don't tremble like that. I'll — 
I'll send my family 'round. Why, it's the sweetest 
day that ever was in this glorious climate of Cali- 

[52] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



fornia. (Aside.) O, I can't bear to see a body cry. 
I'll go and send 'round my family. (Going L.) 

Billy. And you won't be long? You won't 
leave me long? You will not? 

Judge. Why, no, Billy. I'll send my family right 
'round. 

Billy. And Sandy. You will tell Sandy to 
come, will you not? I have kept away from him, 
and he from me, all this time; ever since she, and 
— and the baby died. But, now you will bring him. 
For I feel that the sands of my life are almost run. 
My feet touch the dark waters of death. I hear 
the ocean of Eternity before me. 

Judge. (Takes out handkerchief and going, L.) 
Confound it ! This bright sun on the snow hurts 
my eyes. 

Hick. (Coming from behind tree, and speaking 
to Judge aside.) Ah, going? I've been thinking. 
Judge, about that murder of the widow. A very 
remarkable case. And do you know, I have a 
theory? Yes. It's that boy. No, don't start. 
What's the matter with him now ? Conscience ! 
Conscience stricken ! Of course it's very sad. The 
idea is not mine. I got it from the miners last night. 
If the boy wasn't sick, they'd hang him now. As 
for Sandy, poor man, he is certain the boy did it. 
My friend has gone down to lay his opinion before 
the camp. For my part, I am very sorry for the boy. 

Judge. Well, now, 'tween you me, I think 

(Aside.) But if my family, Capt. Tommy, was to 
hear me— O Lord! (To Hick.) But I'll go and 
send 'round my family. 

Hick. Yes. Meantime, while you are gone, I 
will offer him consolation. (Exit Judge, L. 2. E. 
Hick, approaches Billy from behind, and taps shoul- 

[53] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



der.) Beg pardon, but is this yours? A little 
Testament I picked up where you sat reading yes- 
terday. Is it yours ? 

Billy. Yes, yes. Oh, thank you. It is mine; 
given me by my mother 

Hick. Yes. I thought it was yours ; I saw your 
name on the fly-leaf. No mistake about it, I sup- 
pose ? That is your name ! 

Billy. (Looks up and sees face; starts.) No, 
no, no ! Not my name. No, no, no ! 

Hick. Well, I think it is yours, and you had bet- 
ter keep it; and read it, too. You will not live 
long. (Aside and going.) Condemned out of your 
own mouth ! Now to make them believe that this 
is the murderer, and the last seed of this cursed tree 
is uprooted. (Exit L.) 

Billy. (Rising^ and wildly.) At last! My time 
has come at last ! Over her grave they have reached 
me at last ; and it no longer lifts between me and a 
dreadful death at these men's hands. Fly! Fly! 
But where? And how? (Staggers and leans 
against cabin for support.) I have no strength to 
fly! I have no heart or will. All, all, ends here! 
I must die here! Now! That knife! That knife 
that entered her heart, that pierced the baby's breast, 
dripping with its mother's blood! Oh! (Falls at 
cabin door. Enter Parson, dragging a leg, old and 
broken up, L. i. E. Billy starts up and about to 
enter cabin.) 

Billy. They come! They come! O, will not 
Sandy help me now? 

Parson. Billy Piper, no. Don't — don't go. 

Billy. Why, who are you? And what do you 
want here? 

[54] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Parson. Have a few years then made such a 
change in me? 

Billy. The Parson ! 

Parson. Yes, the Parson. Come back to the 
Forks to die. 

Billy. To die? 

Parson. Yes. To die, and lay my bones by the 
side of hers, up yonder on the hill. 

Billy. And you loved her so? 

Parson. (Half falls to seat on log.) Loved her 
so ? Can't you understand, that when a man like me 
loves, he loves but once, and but one thing in all 
this world? 

Billy. O, yes, I understand. For I, too, loved 
her, Parson. 

Parson. (Starting up, and crosses.) Yes, you 
loved her, too. But how? To put her to shame; 
to make her the mockery and shame of the camp; 
to hide away in her cabin like a spotted house-snake ; 
to creep there like a reptile warmed to life by her 
hearth-stone in winter, and then sting her to death 
after she warmed you into life. 

Billy. And do you think I ever harmed her? 

Parson. Ever harmed her? Ever harmed her? 
She is dead and beyond the reach of word or deed. 
A few more days and I shall meet her. But here, 
standing here on the edge of the dark river, I tell 
you, you murdered her. 

Billy. I ? Great heavens ! What do you mean ! 

Parson. I mean what they say down there, now, 
this morning. Yes, they are saying it now. No, 
don't start, or run away. I am powerless to harm 
or to help now. But I, when I heard that, that 
you murdered her that night, I hobbled up here; I 
wanted this revenge before they came. I wanted 

[55] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



to see you, to tell you that while I gave her all that 
I had, and climbed that mountain in the storm, and 
went forth to begin life over, a broken man, you 
stayed here, a Danite, to take, first, her good name, 
and then her life, her baby's life, and Sandy's life, 
and now my life, too. 

Billy. (Starts, staggers forward, lifts hand with 
Testament.) Parson, hear me! And look in my 
face! Do you not see the dark shadow of the 
Angel's wings that are to waft my soul away ? Oh, 
I, too, am sadly broken. And to-day, to-night, 
maybe this very hour, from somewhere, a hand will 
strike to lay me low in death. We stand beside the 
dark river together. 

Parson. Wh}f, boy, you tremble. Your hand is 
cold and helpless. And you are not guilty? 

Billy. Guilty? Do you see this? The last, the 
only gift of my poor murdered mother, who died by 
the Danites' hands. 

Parson. Why, you! You not a Danite? Then 
swear by the book; swear by the book that you 
never did her harm by word or deed. 

Billy. (Falling on knees and lifting book.) By 
the holy book and by my mother's memory, I swear ! 

Parson. Why, what is this? The boy tells the 
truth ! The boy is honest and true. Some devilish 
work is against him, and I will stand by him. I'll 
stand by you, boy. You are true as the stars in 
heaven. I know it — I know it. I'll meet them. I'll 

face and fight them all, all as I did (half falls,) 

no, no, not as I did. I'm on the down grade and 
can't reach the brake. But stand up, boy, and be 
strong. You are young yet, and 'the world is all 
before you. And while I live, you'll find a friend in 
me. Yes, in the old Parson, to the last drop of 

[56] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



blood. Yes, yes. I'll die right here by your side 
when they come. Don't you be skeered, Billy. 
When they come, I'll come, too, and be your friend 
to the last bone and muscle in the old Parson's body. 
{Leads Billy to seat on log by cabin, and exit, R. 
I.E.) 

Billy. A friend at last ! O, then there is hope. 
I may at last escape from this and again be strong 
and well. O, thank Heaven for one friend at least. 
But I am so afraid ! (Enter Hick, and Carter, 
L.2.E.) 

Hick. You shall see and be satisfied. The Vigil- 
antes are gathering and will be here. We have only 
to say that he has confessed the murder to us, and 
the work is done. {Crosses, taps Billy on shoulder.) 
I have come back to console you. We will talk over 
the holy little book, which your mother gave you 
before she died. You see you will not live long. 
{Half exposes knife.) 

Billy. No, no, no! Not with the knife! No! 
Oh, no, no. See ! I am but a woman, a poor 
weak girl. 

Hick. {To Carter.) You see. {To Billy.) 
Yes, we have come to offer you the consolation of 
religion. 

Billy.' My God! My God! Why is this cup 
given me to drink? 

Carter. Here ! Some one comes ! {Pulls Hick, 
aside.) Quick. {Both exit, L. 2. Enter Sandy, 
R. u. E.) 

Sandy. Why, Billy? Don't you know me? It's 
been a long time, Billy; but there's my hand. 
What! Got the fever, Billy? 

Billy. O, Sandy, Sandy ! I'm so glad you have 
come at last, for my time to die has come. 

[ 57 ] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Sandy. No. no. Now you look here. I'm goin' 
to take care of you after this, whether the camp hkes 
it or not. Yes, I will; and just 'cause they make 
it too hard on you. I'll come to your cabin and stay 
right here. 

Billy. No, Sandy. But let the school children 
come, and not be frightened and run away. Let 
some one stay with me all the time. O, please, all 
the time, Sandy. 

Sandy. I will stay with you all the time. Yes, 
I will. Why not? What else am I fit for now? 

Billy. No, Sandy, no. But when it's all, all 
over, Sandy, I want to be laid by her side, Sandy. 
She was so good to me; so unselfish; pure as the 
lily's inmost leaf; white and high as yonder snowy 
mountains in their crown of clouds. Yes, by her 
side. Promise me that, Sandy ; by her side. 

Sandy. (Aside.) By her side! (Aloud.) Well, 
yes. Yes Billy, by her side. 

Billy. And, Sandy, you will set up a little gran- 
ite stone, and you will place on that stone the name 
that you find in this book. 

Sandy. The name I find in that book ? 

Billy. Promise me. Trust me and promise me. 
It is a little thing I ask and the last, the last I shall 
ever ask of any one. A little stone by your own 
hand, and the name you find here, Sandy. Promise ! 
O, promise me this last, last, request. No, don't 
open the book now; don't look at the book now; 
but promise me. 

Sandy. I promise. 

Billy. O, thank you; thank you. Why, what 
is that! O, Sandy, I tremble at every sound. It 
may be that it is death calling me now. Help me ! 

[58] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



Help! {Enter Capt. T. and Bunker^ running, and 
out of breath.) 

Capt. T. Sandy! Sandy! (Twisting up hair.) 
Now, where's that bald-headed old mule of mine ? 

Sandy. Why, what's up in the Forks, now? 

Bunker. What's up ? Why them strangers have 
called out the Vigilantes. They say that this boy, 
Billy Piper, has confessed he killed her; yes, her 
and the baby. 

Sandy. Then I'll kill him. (About to strike.) 

Capt. T. (Catching him.) You're a fool! Come 
here! That boy is — well that boy is — is — well, if 

you don't stand up and fight for him O, a man 

never has no sense, no how. (Bunker and she roll 
up sleeves.) 

Bunker. (Talking off, L.) If you want to pitch 
in, just pitch into us. 

Sandy. Well, if he's squar'. 

Capt. T. Squar'. In there, Billy. (Pushes him 
into Cabin and closes door.) You just win this fight 
and swing them Danites ! Yes, Danites ! Nobody 
dares say it but me and Bunkerhill. I tell you they 
are Danites. Shoo, here they come ! 

(Enter judge, L., puMng and blowing, and mop- 
ping face. Shouts heard. Capt. T. catches him and 
spins him round.) 

Judge. A hot mornin' for the glorious climate 
of 

Capt. T. Now you fight on the right side, you 
old simpleton, or it'll be hotter. And I'll teach you 
suthin' about the glorious climate of California you 
never heard of before. 

Bunkerhill. And there's Tim a leadin' of the 
Vigilant s! (Enter Tim L.) Here! (Wheels him 
in place by Sandy and Judge.) There's your place. 

[59] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



(Enter mob of miners L., led by Hick, and Carter.) 

Tim. But Billy's got to go, Bunker. 

Miners. Yes, run him out ! 

Parson. (Entering L. i E. and drawing pistol.) 
What's that? You run out Billy Piper? Poor, 
sickly little Billy, that never gets any bigger and 
never has a beard? Look here! When you run 
him out, you do it right here over my bones. (Pistol 
at face of Hick.) 

Hick. But he is a murderer. He has confessed 
to us both that it was he who murdered that poor 
wife and babe. He is a murderer and must die. 

Parson. That voice ! That face ! Didn't I tell 
you we should meet again ? And didn't I tell you I 
should know you when we met? (Tears off beard 
disguise from Hick.'s face.) These are the men I 
saw at her cabin. These are the men that murdered 
her. Danites ! Danites ! Danites ! Boys, what shall 
be their sentence? (Enter Washee Washee down C. 
brandishing razor.) 

Judge. (Draws long pistol; down centre.) Well, 
as I am the only Judge in this part of this glorious 
climate of California, I pronounce them guilty and 
sentence them to die with their boots on. 

All. Hang them! Hang them! (Hick, and 
Carter are seized and hurried off L.) 

Capt. T. Well, I guess the Judge will look after 
them. And Bunker, we better look after Billy. 
Sandy, you stay here; we may need you. Billy's 
pretty sick. But he won't be half so sick, when 
they're dancin' in the air. 

Sandy. I'll stop right here, and if I can help 
poor Billy, say so. 

Bunkerhill. You're right. Billy's the best 

[60] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



friend you ever had. (Exit with Capt. T. into 
cabin. Enter Tim and Judge, followed by miners.) 

Tim. Well, they're on their way, Sandy. 

Sandy. To San Francisco? 

Judge. To Kingdom Come! 

Sandy. Good, good! Served 'em right. True, 
it don't bring her and the babe back to us boys ; but 
we can be kind to Billy now. Poor little Billy. 
We've been mighty hard on him. 

Tim. Well, I feel kind o' cheap about it, too. 
Let's go in and cheer him up. 

Judge. And get him out in this glorious 

(About to lead into cabin. Is met by Capt. T.) 

Capt. T. Stop! Only women must enter that 
cabin now. For it is a woman who has lived there 
all these years. Billy Piper is no more. 

All. What, dead? 

BuNKERHiLL. (Leading out Billy in woman's 
dress.) Yes, Billy Piper is dead. But Nancy 
Williams lives ! 

All. Nancy Williams! 

Parson. Shake hands ! Shake hands with the 
old Parson. (Takes hand, shakes and kisses it.) 
And Sandy, old pard, I know where this little hand, 
like a fluttered bird, wants to fly to. ( Gives hand to 
Sandy.) 

Sandy. And you give me your hand, to — to — ^to 
— keep always? 

Billy. To keep as the stars keep place in heaven, 
Sandy. 

Miners. (Forward; hats in hand.) We all 
begs your pardon, Miss. 

^ Sandy. Yes, we all do. We don't mean bad; 
but it's a rough country, and we're rough, and we've 
lot been good to you. But there is an old and 

[6i] 



THE DANITES IN THE SIERRAS 



beautiful story in the Bible — (to audience) — you've 
all heard it before you learned to read, I reckon. It 
is of that other Eden. There the living God met 
man face to face, communed with him every day in 
his own form. And yet that man fell. Well, now, 
we don't claim to be better than they were in Eden, 
even in the heart of the Sierras. 

Curtain. 



[62] 

LBAg'l2 



THE DANITES 

JOAQUIN MILLER 



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